


True love

by underground_archivist



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: One Shot, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-12
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2020-07-30 16:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20100067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/underground_archivist/pseuds/underground_archivist
Summary: Sixteen years later, she still dreams of him.An answer to the Reverse Illustration Challenge made by Pika-la-Cynique on DevArt.





	True love

**Author's Note:**

> Note from banshee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Underground](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Underground_\(Labyrinth_archive\)) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Underground’s collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/underground/profile).

**Title:** True Love

**Author:** Soshite

**Summary:** Sixteen years later, she still dreams of him. An answer to the Reverse Illustration Challenge made by Pika-la-Cynique on DevArt.

**Rated:** T for teens; referred, but not graphic or explicit naughtiness

**Wound Count:** 4900

**Warning:** This fanfic makes no sense!

**Disclaimer: **I no own Labyrinth. ‘Nuff said.

Sarah had decided that she had watched Joel Schumacher’s Phantom of the Opera one too many times before falling asleep and that she had drunk _way_ too much eggnog than was healthy for one person to consume several months after Christmas.

The not-so-young woman of thirty-two had come back to her empty apartment after a date gone horribly wrong (the fifth one in the same week), tired and weary and wishing for nothing more than to just curl up in front of her television with some ice cream on the couch. The guy who she had just went out with was someone a friend from one of her old visual arts classes recommended; he was cute—had a nice jaw, good teeth, nicely proportional eyes and he had turned out to be a total, utterly pretentious, _ass wipe_. His idea of a great time was to take her to a museum (something that, even as an art student, tended to avoid as they were utter snore fests unless they had something interesting), making himself look stupid in front of her by trying to impress her with his knowledge on art.

Knowledge her ass; the guy thought the Michelangelo invented the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and that Monet painted the Mona Lisa—all while _not_ keeping his hands to himself. Sarah had asked him to wait for her at a special bathroom in the self-same museum (that her class often took trips to at least once per month) that had two entrances. After telling him that she was going to touch up her face, she went in one door and out the other.

Upon her arrival she was intent on having a bachelorette’s night—mainly consisting of watching sappy romance movies and devouring large amounts of frozen dairy products that were sure to leave love handles on her slender frame when she was done. What she had found was several cartons of eggnog in the fridge that, according to the expiration date, hadn’t gone bad yet and the Phantom of the Opera DVD one of her girl friends had lent her in the hopes that she would become a ‘phanatic’ just as they were. The story was truly contrite; she cringed every time she heard either the protagonist (a rather pathetic looking young woman too trusting for her own good) and the supposed villain (a suave, dangerous and dark man that lived in the catacombs underneath the theatre that reminded her too much of another similar man who lived underground) sang and, overall, the whole movie reminded her of a time she’d much rather forget and yet…couldn’t help, but be drawn to.

Sometimes, after every ruined date, she’d wonder…what it would have been like if she had only just accepted his offer. Would that man have held true to his promises? Would he have kept Toby, have the poor baby boy turned into one of his goblin minions who would live in some dirty hovel for the rest of his life?

At other times when her mind would run down this well-trodden track of twisted turns, gnarled little dwarves and friendly beasts, Sarah would be hit with a sudden bout of nostalgia and wish to see it all again—if only to prove to herself that she was not crazy. After coming out of the Labyrinth with Toby she often called for Hoggle or Sir Didymus or even Ludo to come and see her. They would play or talk for hours on end until, one day, her step-mother had caught her. Karen had, apparently, been eavesdropping on her for some time, hearing her speak to no one in particular about nonsensical things. Sarah had then been sent to extensive therapy for several years until she finally cracked and admitted to the whole Labyrinth debacle never happening.

And she had to think…how could it have happened? She was a normal, every day girl. Sure, she had an active imagination—what child didn’t? But it had been high time for her to grow up and stop daydreaming and living in a world that never existed.

However, like most adults, she desperately—secretly—wished that it had been real. That she had been brave and tenacious—been more than just an ordinary girl who took care of a screaming baby. That there had been someone who wanted her out there—enough to rearrange time, move the stars and turn the world upside down; probably not in that order, however.

On even rarer occasions, when she felt excessive low and thought that the male population of the world was made up of truly abysmal specimens, she would drag herself into contemplating _him_. Was that the type of man that she wanted? At the time, he had been nothing more to her than an evil, vile man; the villain to her hero. When she met him all she wanted to do was to defy him in any way possible, cower in his presence as that was how things were done and get her baby brother the hell away from him. As a girl, barely a young woman, she did not even consider him as anything, other than utterly foul. She did not see him in any romantic light (except, perhaps, when she was under the influence of a drugged peach), but clung to him easily enough though he was cruel to her because…

He was all she had. In a world where everything was turning upside down, time wasn’t as it should be and the stars were blinding her, he had been her only steady constant that kept her grounded. In a way, she had been glad for him always being there, shadowing her. But he had been the ‘bad guy’ and everyone knew that it was nigh impossible for a ‘good guy’ and a ‘bad guy’ to get together (‘That’s what fanfiction is for!’ she heard her friend say in her mind, reminding her of an explosive conversation she once had about Ginny Weasley and Tom Riddle).

Well, it couldn’t hurt to dream, could it?

**But you gave up your dreams**, a part of her seemed to say as the prima donna, Carlotta, began making a nuisance of herself onstage in the television. Oddly enough, it was neither the Phantom nor Christine—not even Raoul—that she liked in the entire film. It was the seasoned singer who had sung well past her prime, but knew her art well enough and was proud of it. She could very well relate to her more than she could Christine. Although one could put their tales side by side and find the similarities, it because Carlotta was a strong woman who knew what she wanted, was stubborn and needed no one, truly, to tell her what to do…and she was one who never got her happily ever after unlike the two unlikely lovers. Her love had been lost—killed by a man infatuated with an annoying _girl_ who didn’t end up with the man that she _should_ have ended up with, her life and future dreams burning down with the opera house that she had worked in for well over five seasons.

**You gave up on Jareth.**

Sarah was one to talk though. Now, as an adult, nearly sixteen years later, she was berating not only Christine, but herself as well. Then again…hadn’t the Phantom been at fault as well? He let her go…just as Jareth had let _her_ go. Even after the therapy, there hadn’t been a time when she brought that memory (or fantasy, depending on who you talked to) out to light and wished that she had thought of something else instead of those thrice be-damned lines from that stupid little red book. She reasoned that she had been running on adrenaline and that she hadn’t been thinking straight and had merely said the first words that came to mind instead of trying to get through the situation rationally.

She could have traded herself for Toby, as Christine gave herself to the Phantom for Raoul. But would she have been happy with that decision? She supposed not. She would have grown to resent Jareth if she hadn’t already. She would have lived on knowing that there might have been some sort of grand future waiting for her when she returned home. And then she would have hated him and all of those ‘Valentine evenings’ and ‘mornings of gold’ would have meant nothing to her.

But she wasn’t sure she had been happy coming back, either. She lived an ordinary life most girls who tend to their wailing younger siblings did, subjected to chores and stress from school and the inevitable first date and everything that it entailed. She endured growing up, rather than lived it, but it had been fine as long as she had her friends to turn to for guidance and comfort (at least until stupid, bloody Karen called for an intervention). Everything had been generally fine though, all, with the exception of the fact that she went through men like water, after her seventeenth birthday.

Sarah would always find something wrong with the man she was with—always had to nitpick. They weren’t handsome enough; their teeth were too long; they bored her to death with talk of silly card games; they drank too much; their hair wasn’t long enough; his right eye wasn’t blue enough—if he had to be a blond, she would prefer it to be platinum—whatever excuse she could think of that would justify her not liking the poor guy.

**They weren’t enough like Jareth.**

The woman hadn’t realized that she was looking for a Jareth clone until some time after her graduation from Los Angeles Community College when she had, inadvertedly, painted a portrait of the man himself, dancing with her fifteen year old alter ego for a charity auction. It had just been an abstract sketch at first, with no real form. And even when she added some detail it didn’t strike her odd at all. It was when she put color to the canvas did she understand what she had just done.

After a three hour long burning of the painting and then starting anew Sarah came to one very irritating epiphany: Jareth had ruined her for any other man. And yet, stubborn and defiant thing that she was, she still tried going out nonetheless. If not for her own enjoyment, then to spite the man that often haunted her mind as a youth.

It was to the sounds of Gerard Butler totally ruining ‘Music of the Night’ while fondling (read: molesting) Emmy Rossum that Sarah soon fell asleep on the couch in front of the television, dreaming of dark men in capes, singing sweetly into her ear, words leaving her lips without her meaning for them to…

“I wish I could be with him again…”

She jerked awake as she suddenly heard laughter in her ears—_she had heard it in her mind_—gasping as if someone had splashed cold water all over her. She did _not_ just say those words. More than anyone in her acquaintance, Sarah knew how powerful words could be. And by speaking the words ‘I wish’, she had said the most powerful of them all—the very words that that were very well known for tempting Fate into action.

**Too late.**

Sarah blinked and looked around at the transformed room. She was no long lying on a couch in her apartment; the floor underneath her was cold stone as were the walls, bizarrely placed staircases, arches, doorways and nearly everything in between in this topsy turvy place. She was back in the Escher Room where she had had her final confrontation with Jareth all those years ago. Everything was as she remembered it excluding a few things.

She was an artist in her thirties, there was no baby for her to rescue and Jareth was nowhere to be seen.

Just as that thought came to her mind, music began to play throughout the strange room. It started out as a piano playing rather merrily, and then an ominous toll of a funeral bell would ring every once in a while. Somehow, she felt compelled to run and run she did. She went right through a nearby door, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Sarah had absolutely no idea where she was going, but she fled with all of her might. Unfortunately she was not as spry or energetic as she had been when she was fifteen years old, running the Labyrinth for the first time. She was—to paraphrase James Hook—‘old, alone, nearly done for’.

“_In walks the villain of this tale…_” sang a familiar voice, causing Sarah to freeze in place. She had been looking over the edge of the floor she was currently standing on and considered jumping off as she had before, but hearing _him_ sing again. Slowly, she turned around as he appeared, shutting the door he had come through (that had not been there before, from what she could recall). He wore that same old smirk; he hadn’t changed in all the years that they had been apart.

“…_the door closing silent behind you. I smile and I offer you something to drink in the hopes that a taste would remind you…_”

His ‘drink’ came in the form of a peach. He held it out for her to take, walking forward one long stride at a time. She stared at the fruit, transfixed somewhat as it easily rolled along his fingers; manipulated dexterously in his hand. Jareth appeared in front of her, so dangerously close that she could feel his breath on her cheeks as he bore down upon her with mismatched blue and brown eyes. The peach was still held as an offering to her. She refused, shaking her head at him. He merely sighed and moved away. Twisting his hand to the right, the peach became one of his famous crystals.

“_That poison goes better with grenadine…that deceit’s always lovely with lime…_” Jareth’s expression was a mixture of weariness and amusement as he juggled the delicate looking back and forth from arm to arm, hand to hand, fingers and anywhere that he could place it…and in places where he would likely not, were he a normal man. His eyes met hers; she noticed the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes for the first time, despite the amount of eye shadow he had on. She didn’t know why that was of consequence, but it drew her in more than the glowing crystal did.

A hand roughly grabbing her by the chin brought her out of her reverie, forcing her to actually look into his eyes. He sounded somewhat upset as he sang the next words, the notes sharper and louder; more _dangerous_.

“_That bitterness can be so sweet when it’s served in the right place and at the right time_.”

There was something inside, she had seen it. Somewhat that she failed to have observed as a child when they last had been this close. It showed itself for a brief moment before he had pulled away from her and she found herself alone in a circular room, made of stone and just as empty as the Escher Room had been. At the top of a dais was a seat, which didn’t look at all comfortable to her, but was pretty in its simplistic way. Plus, it had purple on it. Who doesn’t dig purple? A gloved hand landed on her shoulder, causing her to yelp and turn around to face the offender, only to find that he wasn’t there.

From one of the open doorways (how come she never notices these openings anywhere while she was in the Underground, she will never understand) came the tinkling of glass bouncing upon the hard floor. A crystal came merrily out from the doorway, making its way down to the center of the room and up unto the dais and into the waiting hand of the Goblin King, who sat in his throne, looking rather satisfied with himself. He held the crystal ball out, as if holding a wineglass as he continued his song.

“_And we’ll toast to a lifetime of happiness—_”

Happiness? What happiness? All that Sarah could think of was how miserable Jareth had caused her life to be by simply existing, by just living on in her mind. Somewhat emotionally unstable, she began to mentally blame him for everything, disregarding the fact that much had been her fault, too. It hadn’t been fair, she wanted to scream, but she didn’t. Only because of the raised eyebrow she received from the man sitting about like he owned the whole damned world.

“—_and we’ll catch up on mutual friends._”

The woman’s childish ire flared back up once again. It felt so right to be angry at him somehow to want to just throttle him. If only she could get to where he was and just place her hands on his throat. It was his bloody fault for being so damn _unique_; for being like no other man on Earth—in the Aboveground. There was no one else who could make her feel passionate as Jareth did—even if he just made her feel childish and inferior—angry and spiteful. Brave and fearless, too, if she cared to look that much deeper into her sojourn in the Labyrinth…

“_And we’ll laugh with good cheer and not mention that we’re just a means to each of our ends…_”

Sarah watched as Jareth became enamored with the crystal in his hand, his eyes half-lidded as he watched whatever was inside. Was it her dreams? Brought out from some sort of mystical storage so that it would be used to tempt her again? To do—

To do what? She had already established before. She was a thirty something year old woman and with no child to rescue at all from Jareth’s clutches. And she had made it quite clear all those years ago that he had no power over her. Not at all.

**And yet, looking at him right now…you can’t help, but feel something for him.**

Jareth looked lost as he stared at his little glowing ball of light. And when he looked up at her, he seemed so tired and forlorn it almost made her want to hold him. _Almost_. After all, this was the self-same man who had caused her no end of trouble, even after her victory over him. His voice became somewhat distant as he tossed the crystal into the air.

“_And by midnight you’ll be so convinced that all of our time apart was some mistake…_”

The ball began to fall, both of their eyes glued to it as it made its agonizingly slow descent.

“_That I’ll sigh and I’ll stand and I’ll hold out my hand…_”

He had stood from his throne, but did not move from his spot right there in front of the chair. His hand was held out as if to catch the crystal, but it rolled past his fingers. It had been an offer to take her hand.

“_Once more for your memory’s sake._”

The crystal crashed on the floor, breaking spectacularly into a million pieces and shooting off light that blinded Sarah for a moment. She had thrown her arms in front of her face, shutting her eyes as tightly as she could.

There was that piano again and him singing—“_I’ll hold you my love._”—and she could feel movement around her. Tentatively, she opened her eyes—“_And never let go._”—and let out a soft gasp as a myriad of colorful silks and brocades swirled around her in a familiar, spherical room of white and utter decadence. Masks were everywhere, tall and lovely, small and grotesque; highly decorated and elegantly simple.

Sarah didn’t even waste time with anyone around her—“_I’ll hold you my love._”—or trying to find Jareth (or realizing that she was still in the same clothes she had went to her date in; shirt and jeans). The woman went straight for the barrier that would keep her locked from the rest of the world—“And _I’ll never tire_.”—as she had done as a girl. But lo and behold for her to find not some mystical force field to keep her locked in, but a door with a clock hanging over it.

Thirteen o’clock. Once upon a time, such a number would have struck terror in her—“_I’ll hold you my love..._”—and would have forced her into moving quicker, but in this instance it calmed her…made her move slower and languidly. Even as Jareth’s song—“_…by the throat_.”—became something far from sweet….

Sarah opened the door and was met by hands clothed in leather. They latched themselves onto her, dragging her into the darkness that lied beyond the door. She closed her eyes a moment as she felt him pull her into his body—something she had actually felt only once before and it had been brief and she had been simply too young to properly enjoy it. Jareth had always kept his distance otherwise, always playing the proper villain and never overstepping his boundaries.

Until now.

His hand came to caress her throat, somewhat roughly, but she didn’t mind overly much.

“_I’ll hold you my love over the fire…_”

He sounded so sincerely sweet as he held onto her, hand still upon her throat, slowly sliding down to lay lightly over her collar bone. His other hand came up and placed itself upon her head, pulling it close to rest on his shoulder in a rather awkward angle. But, at the moment, Sarah, somehow could care less. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. He still continued his song, not quite done, that same look in his blue and brown eyes again.

“_So breathe with me, love; only love will work now…_”

The hand on her collar moved, caressing her bosom softly removing a button from its place. Sarah didn’t care; she had long already thought this a dream and nothing more. He couldn’t hurt her. And even if it wasn’t a dream, it wasn’t as if this was something she didn’t want. He had no power over her, after all and she could end it as quickly as he started it. Another button came out of its fastening and he kissed her neck softly, then bit it—almost possessively, leaving behind a mark that he soothed gently with his lips. Not one to be distracted from a song, however, he carried on.

“_Hold onto my love like it was stolen._”

The music was swelling into a great climax as he finished unbuttoning her white shirt (he always seemed to be finding her in such garments) and he did not disappoint in his rendition of it as he turned her round to face him, slightly exposed as she was. But it seemed as if his voice had left his throat somehow as his lips weren’t moving, but the song was still being sung by him. Perhaps it was ventriloquism. Perhaps it was simply magic.

**Magic. I hadn’t thought of it in years.**

If Jareth had a smell, it would be of magic and something spicy and exotic. Perhaps a mixture of sandalwood and cinnamon? It would certainly fit Jareth, for that was what he seemed in a nutshell to her in that one moment.

“_I’ll burn with your love like I was Birkenau._”

A hand was put on her waist, the other behind her head, tilting it up so that it was at the right angle as he pressed his lips to hers in a fiery, needy kiss. His eyes remained opened, though, watching her reaction to him with her eyes closed and with that odd look in his.

“_I’ll conquer your love like you were Poland._”

Sarah was released from the kiss, indecently exposed from the waist up, finding herself back in the room where everything had started and will surely end: the Escher Room. The woman had fallen to her knees, wincing at the pain she felt. A cold chill ran down her back as she looked around, Jareth nowhere in sight once again. And, yet again, once she went looking there he was in resplendent white, feathers ruffled and still looking as regal as ever. Such was the way of a king. Her breath was, for some odd reason, caught in her throat as she watched him enter from a lit archway.

“_I’ll act on my love like Pontius Pilate._”

He threw something at her and she thought it was yet another crystal, but it was the peach yet again. He looked at her expectantly and she gave him an incredulous look.

“_I’ll give you my love like I was Brutus._”

Sarah met Jareth’s eyes once last time and she recognized what was there, finally.

“_I’ll radiate love like Three Mile Island._”

It was sincerity. Not love, not hate…simply…_that_. It was something that all the men in her life back home had lacked whenever they went out together—something that Karen and her father danced around—a feeling rarely found, even in children these days where someone fool enough to be sincere in their feelings were persecuted rather than rewarded. It was something that the king possessed back when she had been a nuisance of a child and still possessed now that she was a woman.

Anyone could say ‘I love you’ or ‘I hate you’ these days, without any true repercussions.

Only someone _sincere_ could truly mean it.

And that had been what she had always wanted. A father who would mean what he said, a step mother didn’t spout out affections to look good, a mother who truly loved her, a guy who didn’t want to just get into her pants.

Sarah stared at the peach in her hands. There was only one thing left to do, then.

“_I’ll prove you my love like I was Judas!_”

She took a large bite out of the fruit, savoring the tangy-sweet taste. The music suddenly came crashing down on her, attacking her from all sides with his voice—the Escher Room crumbling around them once again at her decision, falling away to reveal the nothingness. She didn’t mind, in fact, she welcomed it as she slowly slumped onto the ground, oblivion about to overtake her.

Love her or hate her…Sarah didn’t mind. Jareth was sincere and that meant all the world to her. And with this simple act, she bound herself to him.

He stood over her, practically glowing against the darkness. He loomed like a barn owl over its prey and like the bird, he swooped down upon her—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OH, MY FRIGGIN’ _GOD_ NO!!”

Sarah’s chest rose and fell erratically, her heart thumping hard against her ribcage as she tried to steady it through heavy pants. The screen of the television had the main menu of the Phantom of the Opera DVD on, its overture playing for probably about the eighteenth time since the movie ended. The woman wiped her brow of the sweat that had collected there as she whipped her head about to spy the time. It was just past one in the morning; she should be still sleeping. She groaned, not believing she had a dream like that.

Dream? No, scratch that. Nightmare was what it was really like. Like she’d just submit herself to Jareth like that. _Ha_! As if.

Sarah’s eyes caught sight of the eggnog on the coffee table and she immediately picked it up and placing it where it belonged—in the trash. No more old eggnog for her! That done, she felt that she should take a shower, just to wash away the remains of the nightmare she had. Yes, hot water down her body would do her a world of good. Turning off the television and the DVD player, she went and did just that.

As she showered, she mentally berated and scoffed at herself for acting so dumb—even if it had been just a dream. What had she been thinking? That Jareth would have reformed? Come back for her when she needed it most? What a joke. That man was nothing, but trouble and woe to anyone who fell for his tricks. But, still…

It didn’t hurt to dream, right?

Getting out of the shower, she went to her bedroom and quickly threw on some comfortable pants and her LACC sweater, because, for one reason or another, it suddenly got cold in her apartment. She was going to her desk to grab her hairbrush when she noticed something out of place in the dimness of her bedroom. At first, she was very horrified to find that, in the small amount of light that there was a bite mark on her neck that she was so sure hadn’t been there before when she fell asleep, furthermore.

On top of her desk innocently laid a glowing crystal, shining white against the darkness with a stark feather sitting next to it, as if to taunt her or remind her about what had transpired in the past—both far and recent. Unwittingly, she reached out to take the crystal, not at all surprised to find the texture fuzzy once it touched her skin.

She stared at the peach in her hand and at the large chunk missing from it.

It didn’t hurt to dream…but it is often yourself that is to blame for when you’ve reached it and you don’t like it one little bit.

But at least they were sincere in their feelings for one another.

**Even if said feelings are quite unrequited, one way or the other.**


End file.
